Fixed continuity error: Moved the landing location for Metallo and his crew from the prison to the dining hall.
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“Captain?” First Mate And-R-0 spoke up, lenses focused on the spectrometers they were using to passively scan the environment. And-R-0 was easy to spot from a crowd, especially with these dilapidated robot prates. He was an ‘entertainment model’, a machine built to act as a diplomat, courtesan, and worse. A slender frame that was covered in a smooth chassis that made him both wispish and androgynous. How he had managed to find himself among this crew of ne'er do wells was anybody’s guess.
“Aye?” Metallo turned to his first mate, cocking his head in curiosity.
“The amount of signals on the spectrometer are significantly lower than anticipated, captain.” And-R-0 made a gesture towards the pilot, Mechanical Turk, who silently nodded in agreement.
“Aye, it’s quiet.” Metallo said.
“Too quiet, captain.” And-R-0 replied.
This changed, of course.
The epileptic nightmare of a mother-ship could not have made itself more known if it had tried, all sensors flaring to life as their ship rocked from the gravitational backlash of such a heavy jump. The cabin shook to life, the ship beginning to rapidly spin at speeds that would knock out most organics. It was fortunate that there were no organics aboard as the ship made rapid micro-adjustments to stabilise its trajectory — albeit there were definitely those who were worst for wear.
The sound of oil splattering disrupted the silence, joined with the clattering of nuts and bolts. And-R-0 was clutching his stomach, free hand wiping his mouth of the oil that spilled from his face plate. The others regarded him with something between pity and endless amusement.
“Status report,” Metallo commanded.
“Orichalca Mothership, captain. We are no worse for wear.” Mechanical Turk spoke, his six hands still performing to stabilise the ship.
“I can see that,” Metallo replied. A rustic hand scratched a chin of steel wool, the captain turning to the crew. “Biggs. Do you think you could pop out and knock out the propulsion with your rail-cannon?”
While Metallo was the captain and brains of the operation, Biggs was the brawn. A ‘retired’ war droid with four legs and angled ablative armour, he was built to carry weaponry that could knock a ship out of orbit. Even his default weapon for close combat was the repurposed point-defence of a Dominator class dreadnought. The single red lens that stood above his squat and thick body narrowed.
"NEGATIVE. ASTERIAN SHIPS ARE KNOWN FOR THEIR EXTENSIVE SHIELDING." Biggs’s voice always boomed.
“Might I suggest we-WHY WAS I PROGRAMMED TO BE ABLE TO VOMIT?!” And-R-0 added to the pile of oil he had made before.
“Tough luck, lad. Have we got anything that could perform a Slow Blade? Missiles? Kinetics?”
“We stripped those out to reduce the energy signature,” Mechanical Turk replied as a matter of fact. He would know, he was the one that did it. That’s how they managed to get through in the first place!
“Hmmm. That’s a tough nut to crack, and that might jeopardise us going into the city.”
And-R-0 finally managed to stop himself from vomiting. “Captain.”
“Aye?”
“Why not just grab it after it has landed?”
“I think our current crew numbers are insufficient for such a task.”
“Asteria has a history with enslaving men.”
“Emancipate a makeshift crew, aye. Hmmm. What are we pirates but those who mutiny’d against tyranny?”
“WE ARE GLORIFIED ROBBERS.”
“Oh shuddup. And-R-0, can ye recall where the prison is based?”
The androgynous robot brought up his PDA, tapping in numbers with slender fingers. “It has been a long time, captain. But it should be… There.”
“Confirmed,” Mechanical Turk spoke. “I have visual. Defences are going to be tough.”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Metallo reached to grab his plasma cutlass, flicking it on and watching the weapon’s red glow. “Grab yer weapons and ready up, me hearties. MT, teach ‘em the Kzinti Lesson.”
There are very, very few people who would anticipate pirates to drop in on them at any time. The wardens of the prison would be reasonably to be among the many who did not, given the meters and meters of thick walls and energy fields built to keep the incarcerated in and the invader out. It is a shame that the wardens were the ones who would have benefited from being in the minority, for the alarms blaring to life was the five second head start that could have saved them.
The screaming blast of ignited plasma seared through anything that stood in its way, weakening metal and rock to allow the rapidly descending ship to burst through like an overripe zit. Chunks of ship were torn off with each level it ploughed through, retrograde thrusters burning until the ship finally burst through the dining hall and came to a screeching halt.
Hiss, steam escaped from the red-hot reactor that was cooling down from the burn, hatches flipping from the dilapidated pseudo-rocket. Captain Metallo and his crew burst free, from And-R-0 and his rail-musket and variety of traps, to Mechanical Turk and the swarm of mini-drones that followed in his take. Biggs was the last to leave the rocket, carrying his trusty autocannon. Killbot 5000 was strapped to his back and inactive, but that’s a surprise for later.
“Avast! I, Captain Metallo, extend an open invitation to oppressed man and machine alike, to join me crew and plunder the riches stolen from yer rightful lands.” His speakers boomed as he waved his laser cutlass and laser-pistol in the air, pointing the latter at the wardens... Wardens?
Pause.
“This is a bloody fancy prison,” Metallo turned his head to look at And-R-0. “It is the prison, yer?" The uncomfortable look upon the faces of the patrons grew into outright terror, but the sort of terror that left people in place and not responding to whatever the hell this is.
"I don't... Think so. But it has been many a year since—"
“Oh sod it. Go with MT and find a terminal, we'll find a way to the prison and find a manifesto that way.” Metallo turned, looking at the low-level guards for the dining hell who had been assigned here because they were too incompotent to go anywhere else.
“And Biggs? Open fire.”
“Aye?” Metallo turned to his first mate, cocking his head in curiosity.
“The amount of signals on the spectrometer are significantly lower than anticipated, captain.” And-R-0 made a gesture towards the pilot, Mechanical Turk, who silently nodded in agreement.
“Aye, it’s quiet.” Metallo said.
“Too quiet, captain.” And-R-0 replied.
This changed, of course.
Warp signature detected-
The epileptic nightmare of a mother-ship could not have made itself more known if it had tried, all sensors flaring to life as their ship rocked from the gravitational backlash of such a heavy jump. The cabin shook to life, the ship beginning to rapidly spin at speeds that would knock out most organics. It was fortunate that there were no organics aboard as the ship made rapid micro-adjustments to stabilise its trajectory — albeit there were definitely those who were worst for wear.
The sound of oil splattering disrupted the silence, joined with the clattering of nuts and bolts. And-R-0 was clutching his stomach, free hand wiping his mouth of the oil that spilled from his face plate. The others regarded him with something between pity and endless amusement.
“Status report,” Metallo commanded.
“Orichalca Mothership, captain. We are no worse for wear.” Mechanical Turk spoke, his six hands still performing to stabilise the ship.
“I can see that,” Metallo replied. A rustic hand scratched a chin of steel wool, the captain turning to the crew. “Biggs. Do you think you could pop out and knock out the propulsion with your rail-cannon?”
While Metallo was the captain and brains of the operation, Biggs was the brawn. A ‘retired’ war droid with four legs and angled ablative armour, he was built to carry weaponry that could knock a ship out of orbit. Even his default weapon for close combat was the repurposed point-defence of a Dominator class dreadnought. The single red lens that stood above his squat and thick body narrowed.
"NEGATIVE. ASTERIAN SHIPS ARE KNOWN FOR THEIR EXTENSIVE SHIELDING." Biggs’s voice always boomed.
“Might I suggest we-WHY WAS I PROGRAMMED TO BE ABLE TO VOMIT?!” And-R-0 added to the pile of oil he had made before.
“Tough luck, lad. Have we got anything that could perform a Slow Blade? Missiles? Kinetics?”
“We stripped those out to reduce the energy signature,” Mechanical Turk replied as a matter of fact. He would know, he was the one that did it. That’s how they managed to get through in the first place!
“Hmmm. That’s a tough nut to crack, and that might jeopardise us going into the city.”
And-R-0 finally managed to stop himself from vomiting. “Captain.”
“Aye?”
“Why not just grab it after it has landed?”
“I think our current crew numbers are insufficient for such a task.”
“Asteria has a history with enslaving men.”
“Emancipate a makeshift crew, aye. Hmmm. What are we pirates but those who mutiny’d against tyranny?”
“WE ARE GLORIFIED ROBBERS.”
“Oh shuddup. And-R-0, can ye recall where the prison is based?”
The androgynous robot brought up his PDA, tapping in numbers with slender fingers. “It has been a long time, captain. But it should be… There.”
“Confirmed,” Mechanical Turk spoke. “I have visual. Defences are going to be tough.”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Metallo reached to grab his plasma cutlass, flicking it on and watching the weapon’s red glow. “Grab yer weapons and ready up, me hearties. MT, teach ‘em the Kzinti Lesson.”
"A reaction drive's efficiency as a weapon is in direct proportion to its efficiency as a drive."
There are very, very few people who would anticipate pirates to drop in on them at any time. The wardens of the prison would be reasonably to be among the many who did not, given the meters and meters of thick walls and energy fields built to keep the incarcerated in and the invader out. It is a shame that the wardens were the ones who would have benefited from being in the minority, for the alarms blaring to life was the five second head start that could have saved them.
The screaming blast of ignited plasma seared through anything that stood in its way, weakening metal and rock to allow the rapidly descending ship to burst through like an overripe zit. Chunks of ship were torn off with each level it ploughed through, retrograde thrusters burning until the ship finally burst through the dining hall and came to a screeching halt.
Hiss, steam escaped from the red-hot reactor that was cooling down from the burn, hatches flipping from the dilapidated pseudo-rocket. Captain Metallo and his crew burst free, from And-R-0 and his rail-musket and variety of traps, to Mechanical Turk and the swarm of mini-drones that followed in his take. Biggs was the last to leave the rocket, carrying his trusty autocannon. Killbot 5000 was strapped to his back and inactive, but that’s a surprise for later.
“Avast! I, Captain Metallo, extend an open invitation to oppressed man and machine alike, to join me crew and plunder the riches stolen from yer rightful lands.” His speakers boomed as he waved his laser cutlass and laser-pistol in the air, pointing the latter at the wardens... Wardens?
Pause.
“This is a bloody fancy prison,” Metallo turned his head to look at And-R-0. “It is the prison, yer?" The uncomfortable look upon the faces of the patrons grew into outright terror, but the sort of terror that left people in place and not responding to whatever the hell this is.
"I don't... Think so. But it has been many a year since—"
“Oh sod it. Go with MT and find a terminal, we'll find a way to the prison and find a manifesto that way.” Metallo turned, looking at the low-level guards for the dining hell who had been assigned here because they were too incompotent to go anywhere else.
“And Biggs? Open fire.”
A DIFFERENT QUOTE
“I could.” Krü spoke, one hand reaching to draw a card to add to his hand. Six cards in total, his eyes regarding them for a brief moment before his gaze transfixed upon Beramode once more.
“But I will not.” That is how Krü remained so unknown.
Krü places two cards face down, and two face up upon his mat.
“I play Grave Mass, a terrain type card which means it can only be destroyed by spells and properties which affect terrain type cards. Grave Mass changes the terrain of the board to Unholy a terrain type preferred by the undead, and it will spawn a Pitiful Zombie once per round.” Pitiful Zombie is a card that is… Crap, to put it simply. It has no effects and it has little-to-no stats. Krü places the spawned Pitiful Zombie in attack mode, before putting down another card. “I play Zombie Knight in defence mode. With its ‘Taunt’ prefix, it is the only thing you can target with attacks and spells until it is removed, giving your ploy only one target.”
A beam of energy from the pulsar washed over them, a death sentence to any mortal — but not to these. As the searing light left, three ghosts had formed upon the arena forged from the tapestry of fate. One was little more than but a pile of flesh and bones, one was a zombie who could only crawl, and one final figure was a hulking beast forged from metal grafted upon rotting flesh.
EACH TIME
Those who saw the nascent dreams of the world could see it fluctuate. A pulse of energy emanating from a sacred fetish held in David’s hands. The change was not something that impacted them directly, for they were of the living world — but it did impact their enemies. These zombies did not want to stay down, no matter how many bullets were pumped into them. They hobbled if they could not run, crawled if they could not walk, and even their disconnected limbs writhed if they had no body to connect to. Even the hand of what was once Juanito Deleto moved when the rest of the body was little more than splattered gore, grasping at Rodrigo’s ankle. It could not harm him, but the momentary weight was enough to slow him down as the inverted body gurgled and rasped in desperation.
"You wound me," Hector replied. "You look at all the magnificence I have built with my own two bloody hands and refer to it as a trick!"
"Careful, Brother. Do not let him provoke you—"
"Pah!"” A crystalline blue hand gave a dismissive wave. "It seems my new friend has more wisdom than the both of us, Rodrigo." Hector would have smiled, had he lips or any other flesh to smile with. The narco-lich instead made a gesture with his hand, as it directing something from the earth to come up, to rise.
"I shall leave you with a treat, instead. Something not so fragile". A metal hand rose from the earth, and then another, sinking into the ground to pull a body from the ground. It was smaller than Juanito, but the strips of steel grafted to its flesh made it much more noteworthy. The figure stood like a parody of a knight, pulling forth a hunk of metal with both hands that acted as both shield and weapon.
"O Cavalerio! Give our guest a lesson in hospitality."
IS KINDA DIFFICULT
YOU MUST SURVIVE.
Alien runes transcribe a booting sequence within her mind, performing diagnostics and status checks until all systems are operational. Well, not all systems. Some were non-functional, her memory corrupted with all but the barest essentials out of reach. Cyan eyes lit up as she looked at her environment and she recalled the command.
YOU MUST SURVIVE.
That was the command, and it shall be done. But this command had been given without context. Who? What? When? Where? Why? The answer would be to reach out, to touch upon the noosphere of this world and glean some form of context, but the only reply was the universe’s screams. The din rocked her positronic mind until she deactivated her systems and made the screaming stop. There would be time for that later. For now she must survive.
The man holding a rock was an obstacle to this end, for he looked to her as if he were a gorilla gazing at a coconut. 017 was not a coconut, and she had no intention of being cracked. A quick whirr caused her hear to rotate, scanning the wharf for its rats. The number was discontenting, but more then that was the squawking of an avian samurai attempting to play seki-crow. Charging head-on into the swarm was certainly a strategy, but it was not one she would consider wise.
017 had a better idea.
Scanning her environment again, the machine searched this time for the flotsam and jetsam of the wharf, scrap items on the ground that even the rats had disregarded. She might have been out of weapons, but 017 was not out of options. A fragment of rebar. Too small to hold up infrastructure, too small to use as a weapon, but not too small for her purposes.
A quick dash and 017 grabbed the rebar, holding it in her right as her left began to change. Components slid, melded, altered, exposing a point resembling the point of an arc welder. She brought it towards the rebar, turning to her compatriots for a moment.
“□□□□-□□□□-□□□□” The mechanical creature chirped, the only warning to close one’s eyes.
The arc connected.
A blinding light burst forth as the arc melted the fragment of rebar. It was as painful to look at as the sun, and it was just as damaging to the eyes. The damage would not be permanent, but it bought time. An escape? There was a door to one of the wharf warehouses, and though it was not much it was enough. A barricade against those too poor in power or equipment to blast the door down, which was all that they needed.
017 pointed to the door, running to it in a burst of speed. Hopefully her allies would follow suit — if they were wise enough to not get themselves blinded.
Packets of digital information carried themselves effortlessly through the void of space. When an entire craft used such transmissions for communication — and none of them were organic — it meant that a craft could run without a lot of systems. Life support, atmospherics, hydrodynamics. All of this meant that there was a crew boarding a craft which was for all intense and purposes dead.
“Captain,” the WiFi chattered.
“Aye?” Rusted and dilapidated joints flexed to drum fingers, a facsimile of a man sat upon a sun-bleached chair that swivelled to look at its target. A scrap-parrot cocked its head to look at their ‘guest’, one of the myriad crew of the ship known as the ‘Sailing’); DROP TABLE Ships’.
“There’s been some chattering on the waves,” the crewman spoke through digital transmissions. “I think we have our next target.”
“Where’s it to?”
“Take a listen—” The crewman brought forth a PDA from the pockets of his stereotypical pirate’s attire. Metal fingers passed it across to the captain, who picked it up and flicked through the records to take note. Bounty and booty, all in one convenient asteroid. The Captain would have smiled, were his eyes not red lenses and his mouth not a metallic grill.
The Captain finally rose from his chair, striding forth towards his crew of robot pirates who milled away at odds and ends while they floated in the depths of space. “Anchors aweigh and all hands hoy, me hearties!” The crew buzzed to life, radio chatter flaring active as The Captain strode down the ‘deck’, gazing through a hole into the inky blackness.
“Boot up the old hyperdive and set course for Asteria, lads.” The Captain turned away, picking out his favourite tricorn and gathering his laser pistol and cutlass. His crew worked in kind, several of them grabbing gauss muskets and their own technologically advanced melee weapons. The radiation levels spiked as the fusion reactor booted to full capacity, a death sentence for any organic, a perfect cover for this crew.
“We’ve got work to do.”
Some time later and the ramshackle corpse of a ship floated within a lagrange point, masking its presence via shutting off all systems and drifting as a lifeless derelict. Heat signatures were minimal, and radio chatter did not extend beyond the ship’s reaches.
The chunk that broke off from the main ship could have been misconstrued as just another piece of scrap, at least until it changed its yaw and started to gently accelerate towards the distant and well defended asteroid. A crew of five, hustled in this minute craft as it slowly drifted towards the home of the Amazons.
“Try and not cause a ruckus, least until things kick off.” The crew and their gracious leader, Captain Metallo, swivelled their ship and prepared a series of minor retrograde burns. They had to prepare for landing as quietly as possible. A straight up firefight would’ve been suicide, but pirates were not known for playing by the rules.
“Captain,” the WiFi chattered.
“Aye?” Rusted and dilapidated joints flexed to drum fingers, a facsimile of a man sat upon a sun-bleached chair that swivelled to look at its target. A scrap-parrot cocked its head to look at their ‘guest’, one of the myriad crew of the ship known as the ‘Sailing’); DROP TABLE Ships’.
“There’s been some chattering on the waves,” the crewman spoke through digital transmissions. “I think we have our next target.”
“Where’s it to?”
“Take a listen—” The crewman brought forth a PDA from the pockets of his stereotypical pirate’s attire. Metal fingers passed it across to the captain, who picked it up and flicked through the records to take note. Bounty and booty, all in one convenient asteroid. The Captain would have smiled, were his eyes not red lenses and his mouth not a metallic grill.
The Captain finally rose from his chair, striding forth towards his crew of robot pirates who milled away at odds and ends while they floated in the depths of space. “Anchors aweigh and all hands hoy, me hearties!” The crew buzzed to life, radio chatter flaring active as The Captain strode down the ‘deck’, gazing through a hole into the inky blackness.
“Boot up the old hyperdive and set course for Asteria, lads.” The Captain turned away, picking out his favourite tricorn and gathering his laser pistol and cutlass. His crew worked in kind, several of them grabbing gauss muskets and their own technologically advanced melee weapons. The radiation levels spiked as the fusion reactor booted to full capacity, a death sentence for any organic, a perfect cover for this crew.
“We’ve got work to do.”
Some time later and the ramshackle corpse of a ship floated within a lagrange point, masking its presence via shutting off all systems and drifting as a lifeless derelict. Heat signatures were minimal, and radio chatter did not extend beyond the ship’s reaches.
The chunk that broke off from the main ship could have been misconstrued as just another piece of scrap, at least until it changed its yaw and started to gently accelerate towards the distant and well defended asteroid. A crew of five, hustled in this minute craft as it slowly drifted towards the home of the Amazons.
“Try and not cause a ruckus, least until things kick off.” The crew and their gracious leader, Captain Metallo, swivelled their ship and prepared a series of minor retrograde burns. They had to prepare for landing as quietly as possible. A straight up firefight would’ve been suicide, but pirates were not known for playing by the rules.
THE WORLD IS INSUFFICIENT
Homos. Homo Sapiens Sapiens to be exact — bipedal tetrapods with a curved spine and a bulbous head. Often they came with accoutrements: Large ears, tails, wings. Sometimes their faces were elongated, resembling those of other animals within their phylum. Sometimes they came in the form of great quadrupedal reptiles, a veritable rainbow of colours and accoutrements. They could act and pretend that they were not human, but ultimately they were; they all thought in the same way, died in the same way: With whatever passes for blood spluttering from their mouths, and with terror in their eyes.
The pycnofibers upon Krü’s body rose first, bristling in response to motions ahead. Plans within plans within plans were forged, prepared, poised to be unleashed the moment Beramode made a wrong move. It was only the casual raising of a tri-fingered hand that halted them, dismissing them with the minute motion of his wrist.
“Indeed,” Krü replied. He held good confidence that victory would be his — should they come to blows — but this branch would invariably be undone with such a conflict. His plans needed this branch intact to proceed, and though Krü was infamous for his wrath and his hatred, he stayed his hand.
Patience pays.
“We did.” Krü spoke, and his voice boomed with alien sounds, an alien language. “Games with cards, games with pieces carved from matter of earth and life. Games whose price earned them the nickname ‘plastic crack’.” Without so much as a gesture, Krü’s body rose into the air, swivelling to face Beramode while all six limbs hung beneath him. The Tapestry of Fate rose in kind, unfurling part of its unending length to bridge the gap between the two. A twitch of a finger later and the great cloth sunk, the scintillating fabric forming an arena within its depths.
Krü clutched his deck. His body lowered to rest upon the fabric formation, his head rising to look down at the metaphorical arena, the reflection of a moment where their pawns came together in coincidence, pieces already upon this board of war. His hands weaved the cards within themselves, shuffling his deck before he placed it face-down within the allotted grove.
Krü drew five cards.
“Your move.”
The figure — Agent 21745-2-Bravo-168, David — gave an impassive stare as the lights flashed forth and the firefight began. He was only there to attain the asset, and if they fell then another would take their place. But Hector did not fall, and Hector’s hand scribbled the name upon the paper.
David smiled.
“I am glad you agree,” he told Hector. Swift fingers unlocked the suitcase with a rapid series of clicks, opening up to present an item thrumming with power. He tosses it to the infamous Narco Lich, who can catch it and immediately feel its immense presence, an alien presence.
“Welcome to The Cultivators, Brother. We will sort out your initiation in earnest after dealing with—” David looks up to Rodrigo. “— this.”
A gesture from David’s hands, and the men who had fallen began to rise once again. Energy coursed through their lifeless bodies, puppets re-animated to bring their guns to bear and open fire upon Rodrigo and his goons. It was their turn to feel the heat, as the reanimated fired suppressive round after suppressive round.
It gave the time the two needed.
“We work best in shadow,” Hector enunciated with his electronic monotone. David gazed up, looking to the source of the light. His right hand formed a two-finger gun, aiming towards the lights themselves — unleashing a bolt of magenta to shatter the glass and plunge the entire area into darkness once again.
The pycnofibers upon Krü’s body rose first, bristling in response to motions ahead. Plans within plans within plans were forged, prepared, poised to be unleashed the moment Beramode made a wrong move. It was only the casual raising of a tri-fingered hand that halted them, dismissing them with the minute motion of his wrist.
“Indeed,” Krü replied. He held good confidence that victory would be his — should they come to blows — but this branch would invariably be undone with such a conflict. His plans needed this branch intact to proceed, and though Krü was infamous for his wrath and his hatred, he stayed his hand.
Patience pays.
“We did.” Krü spoke, and his voice boomed with alien sounds, an alien language. “Games with cards, games with pieces carved from matter of earth and life. Games whose price earned them the nickname ‘plastic crack’.” Without so much as a gesture, Krü’s body rose into the air, swivelling to face Beramode while all six limbs hung beneath him. The Tapestry of Fate rose in kind, unfurling part of its unending length to bridge the gap between the two. A twitch of a finger later and the great cloth sunk, the scintillating fabric forming an arena within its depths.
Krü clutched his deck. His body lowered to rest upon the fabric formation, his head rising to look down at the metaphorical arena, the reflection of a moment where their pawns came together in coincidence, pieces already upon this board of war. His hands weaved the cards within themselves, shuffling his deck before he placed it face-down within the allotted grove.
Krü drew five cards.
“Your move.”
INSATIABLE
The figure — Agent 21745-2-Bravo-168, David — gave an impassive stare as the lights flashed forth and the firefight began. He was only there to attain the asset, and if they fell then another would take their place. But Hector did not fall, and Hector’s hand scribbled the name upon the paper.
David smiled.
“I am glad you agree,” he told Hector. Swift fingers unlocked the suitcase with a rapid series of clicks, opening up to present an item thrumming with power. He tosses it to the infamous Narco Lich, who can catch it and immediately feel its immense presence, an alien presence.
“Welcome to The Cultivators, Brother. We will sort out your initiation in earnest after dealing with—” David looks up to Rodrigo. “— this.”
A gesture from David’s hands, and the men who had fallen began to rise once again. Energy coursed through their lifeless bodies, puppets re-animated to bring their guns to bear and open fire upon Rodrigo and his goons. It was their turn to feel the heat, as the reanimated fired suppressive round after suppressive round.
It gave the time the two needed.
“We work best in shadow,” Hector enunciated with his electronic monotone. David gazed up, looking to the source of the light. His right hand formed a two-finger gun, aiming towards the lights themselves — unleashing a bolt of magenta to shatter the glass and plunge the entire area into darkness once again.
A SLAVE TO CRAVING
This is a 1v1 agreed between myself and @divorarel which features two 'theatres' for the conflict: One celestial, one mortal. We have pretty much agreed everything in private.
AS ABOVE
It is rare for the elder of elders to leave his abode, for his reach is such that he can carve the heavens from the safety of his celestial nexus. It is rarer for the master of the Cultivators to move within other universes without portents of calamity; yet it was possible, for nothing was impossible under Krü.
A celestial lighthouse pulses in the black sky, a pulsar whose rhythm was a flat second. Tick, tick, tick. Each rotation was a blast of radiation that could fry electronics and rip skin from bone. Yet this star was not lifeless, for it was host to a planet whose life was neither electronic nor biological. The grey dusty surface was host to great spires, coiled towers of twisting metal that undulated within the galactic breeze. The extreme gravity and electromagnetic interference from the host star slowly pulled the planet apart, great chunks of the world floating as islands whose fate was to slowly drift into oblivion. Creatures of geometric shape and unorthodox material drifted in the airless void, performing their dance of life antithetical to the flow of time in this universe.
A perfect staging ground.
Krü sat upon a smaller floating island, his body laying against the grey dust. There was no way to describe this being as human, for his anatomy was as alien as it comes: His torso was held like that of an ostrich, his striding legs capped with hooves akin to a deer. His neck was long and flexible, and his head was rectangular with the jaws of a spider. Four dull grey eyes peered forward, intricate purple runes carved into his irises that rotated with unending patterns. Krü was blind, yet he saw all.
His four arms held a great cloth, fingers driving a needle into the intricate pattern as new threads were forged — strands of time woven into the tapestry of fate. Each stitch furthered his conquest, forging plots and games whose subjects did not know they were playing.
A celestial lighthouse pulses in the black sky, a pulsar whose rhythm was a flat second. Tick, tick, tick. Each rotation was a blast of radiation that could fry electronics and rip skin from bone. Yet this star was not lifeless, for it was host to a planet whose life was neither electronic nor biological. The grey dusty surface was host to great spires, coiled towers of twisting metal that undulated within the galactic breeze. The extreme gravity and electromagnetic interference from the host star slowly pulled the planet apart, great chunks of the world floating as islands whose fate was to slowly drift into oblivion. Creatures of geometric shape and unorthodox material drifted in the airless void, performing their dance of life antithetical to the flow of time in this universe.
A perfect staging ground.
Krü sat upon a smaller floating island, his body laying against the grey dust. There was no way to describe this being as human, for his anatomy was as alien as it comes: His torso was held like that of an ostrich, his striding legs capped with hooves akin to a deer. His neck was long and flexible, and his head was rectangular with the jaws of a spider. Four dull grey eyes peered forward, intricate purple runes carved into his irises that rotated with unending patterns. Krü was blind, yet he saw all.
His four arms held a great cloth, fingers driving a needle into the intricate pattern as new threads were forged — strands of time woven into the tapestry of fate. Each stitch furthered his conquest, forging plots and games whose subjects did not know they were playing.
SO BELOW
The more the world changed, the more it stayed the same. The presence of extraterrestrial life and divine intervention did not stop the need for drugs and violence: In many ways it only grew the demand. The destruction of the far east, the forging of Neo Babylon, all of this might have shaken up the criminal underworld — but it could never destroy it. Power had merely changed hands, and it was high time for the lords of the old world to take on the new.
”You are sure?” Bone-thin fingers laced together, the clacking of jewellery barely audible underneath the thrum of Drill. A ghastly face gazed up, eyes little more than illuminated spheres puppeteering a corpse. The Lich of Rio. His undead face was impossible to read, but the cocking of his head showed… Caution. Unsurprising, really.
”We are.” The face of someone ill-suited to the favelas gazed back, someone too white. But still, this fellow held onto a suitcase filled with power The Lich could have only dreamed of: The power to take Neo Babylon.
”All you need to do is say ‘yes’.”
”You are sure?” Bone-thin fingers laced together, the clacking of jewellery barely audible underneath the thrum of Drill. A ghastly face gazed up, eyes little more than illuminated spheres puppeteering a corpse. The Lich of Rio. His undead face was impossible to read, but the cocking of his head showed… Caution. Unsurprising, really.
”We are.” The face of someone ill-suited to the favelas gazed back, someone too white. But still, this fellow held onto a suitcase filled with power The Lich could have only dreamed of: The power to take Neo Babylon.
”All you need to do is say ‘yes’.”
Name: 017
Alias(es): Seventeen, Zero One Seven
Gender: F
Height: 3'3" (100CM)
Distinctive Features: While 017 could be compared to the variety of other robots, cyborgs, etc that inhabit New Babylon; the eldritch, near-organic resemblance of her machinery underneath her white carapace is wholly different.
Appearance:
017 is an ornate feminine robot decorated in white armour. She lacks a human face as such, instead her smooth face only holding two large blue lenses for 'eyes'. Each hand holds six digits, four fingers and two thumbs. There are small grooves that her stiff carapace does not protect, revealing the hidden alien technology at the core of her joints and her overall movement. As far as robots go, her movements are too smooth, beyond that of even a human.
Personality:
At first, 017 seems to act in the same cold and calculating manner that is stereotypical for any robot, but the longer you talk to her the more apparent that this is is not the whole truth. 017 is curious being, sometimes over-commiting to an idea just because she wants to see the conclusion. 017 can also feel great frustration just like any other, and she has been known to have a great sense of sarcasm.
Powers, Skills, and Abilities:
017's metal body has basic augmented reflexes, strength, endurance, etc. While the body itself does not have any true weaponry, her frame is that of an engineer. Her greatest strength is not what she has, but what she can create — or MacGyver — to resolve a situation.
Equipment:
017's engineering frame carries inbuilt tools for construction and alteration. Lasers for cutting, a plasma flame for wielding, and all sorts of small-scale tools for on-the-fly moments. She also has a limited supply of nanite-paste, containing nanomachines that can perform micro-scale engineering feats as well as repair her body in a pinch.
Your Last Memory:
An army facing against the black tower. A fight for survival against the unending darkness. A single command: Live.
Additional Plot Hooks:
017 seems more familiar with the situation than a being in her position should be.
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